


The Fighter

by daaarkknight (orphan_account)



Category: Batman - All Media Types, DCU (Comics)
Genre: Angst and Feels, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-20
Updated: 2020-01-20
Packaged: 2021-02-27 15:21:22
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,382
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22339207
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/daaarkknight
Summary: When I die, people won't ask "Who killed him?"They'll ask who the hell kept me alive.
Comments: 3
Kudos: 36
Collections: Batman, Batman Universe Series, BatmanFanfiction, Bruce Wayne, Favorite Batman Fics, Jason and Alfred's bonding moments, batman orignal characters





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [FabulaRasa](https://archiveofourown.org/users/FabulaRasa/gifts), [Mithen](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mithen/gifts), [Unpretty](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Unpretty/gifts), [LemonadeGarden](https://archiveofourown.org/users/LemonadeGarden/gifts).



It happened because it was bound to happen. 

You don't take care of a five acre homestead plus three acres of cavernous rock caves, keep them sparkling clean, well swept, well wiped, well polished, all along with worrying about your ward who dresses like a goddamn bat and takes on what seems to you like the whole goddamn world sometimes, and his own brood of superheroes, the bravest girls and boys you've ever seen, who're also the stupidest girls and boys you've ever seen, who come back with injuries that make you feel ashamed of yourself for not being out there, by your master's side, except you remind yourself that your place is here, Master Bruce _needs_ you to be _here,_ at the _Cave,_ he needs you to be the _butler_...and some part of you, some _stupid_ part of you, as you bandage the bones, is actually _glad_ these stupid, idiotic, brave children are _out there,_ with your _son_ , because you don't know how you would live otherwise, worrying about him all the _bloody_ time, worrying about him out there all _alone,_ and at least this way he's _not_ alone, and you hate thinking this way, but it's one of the least-bad things about your job, and you swallow it, along with the Prozac, because those kids? Well, they're yours too now. And every night, every night, they go out there and get their asses handed to them? Every night they come back with their elbows jutting out of their sockets at the wrong angle, or their newly grown teeth bashed in, or a concussion the size of a melon, you can't breathe. You can't _breathe._ And you feel slightly guilty about _that_ too. And the cleaning helps, and the dusting helps, and the ridiculous brainless soaps help, but sometimes, sometimes it all gets too much and you roam around the kitchen like some kind of premature ghost of yourself, but never, never in _his_ sight because your beloved, beloved son has his own problems and he does not, does _not_ need one more on his plate.

So like I said, it was bound to happen. 

* * *

Alfred falls ill. Sometimes it's gout, or fever, or simple tiredness. He steadfastly refuses all help. He stands up and goes about his chores like normal. He makes Eggs Benedict for breakfast and blackmails Bruce & company into eating it. He does the laundry and the dishes, and all the while Bruce follows him around like a hungry puppy. Bruce stands behind him, pleading, begging. "Alfred. Go to _bed_."

"Master Bruce. Have you _forgotten_ your place?"

"Please, Alfred. Please."

"No, I shan't. The celery isn't going to weed itself. Neither do groceries shop themselves, I have found."

"Alfred. If you go, I _swear._ I shall weed the groceries...the _celery,_ I mean. I'll buy, I'll do the shopping, Alfred. Just... _please._ Go to bed. Rest. I'll go on my knees if I have to, will _that_ suffice? Huh? Then I will!"

And Bruce (never to be accused of skimping on the melodrama) begins descending slowly on the ground, one knee touching the floorboard, his hands clasped...and isn't it telling that the kids conveniently aren't around to prevent this foolishness... 

"Master Bruce!" Alfred's faint sense of British stoicism is rather offended at this touching display of manipulative prowess..."You shall get up this instant!" and he tries to pull Bruce up, but Bruce is stubborn as a clam, and even Alfred can feel his grasp weakening, as his tug doesn't register at all on the kneeling man in front of him... "Master Bruce! I have _not_ raised a prima donna!"

But all the bemused fluster in the world does the Pennyworth no good. In this first round, the winning goes to the Wayne. For now. Alfred retreats with a huff upstairs, still vowing not to be _wheedled_ in this unmanly manner. With a scowling mutter he wipes the silver candlesticks on the upper chimneypiece opposite the lush main bedroom. Strong hands sweep in and firmly stick the candlesticks back on the mantel from Alfred's increasingly loosening grasp. Alfred gasps as he is suddenly lifted off the ground, and "Master Bruce"s and squirms his way out of the tight clasp of arms, but only once they are inside the copious red velvet cake of the main guest bedroom. He is gently put down, and he turns around and meets his ward eye to eye.

"I take no more pleasure in this, Alfred," says a serious Bruce, finally, "than you do. But...you would do the same for me, old friend." He bends down and brushes Alfred's pate with a kiss. There is something in the corner of his eye. Alfred turns around.

He scans the double-bed instead: it's sumptuous and deep maroon, complete with ribboned curtains. He does not allow himself such luxuries. His room is simpler, more reminiscent of military quarters.

"Master Bruce." His voice is cracking. He doesn't want it to crack.

"Yes, Alfred."

"Will you..." he hesitates. His weakness draws around him like a shroud. "Will you...tuck me in?"

Bruce looks taken aback. Alfred has placed his pieces strategically. Bruce swallows. "Yes, Alfred." he answers with a dry mouth, for the first time unsure of himself, like a little child once more. The child he had once been...so long ago now... 

Alfred climbs into the melted-cherry down comforter. His joints creak like an old table lamp, one that has not yet acquired antique status and can only described with that mediating qualifier. He looks up at Bruce, and sudden tears sting the back of his eyeballs. 

He doesn't want to get in, because once he does there'sno getting out. 

Bruce smiles down on Alfred kindly. The seventy-year old man, who had _once_ read a small boy a bedtime story and then allowed him to cuddle for a while, soft warm coos, before packing him in tight... The poetic irony of this situation is not lost on Bruce. Or rather the symmetry. As if there's the universe is busy spinning some kind of universal parallel, tears start out of Bruce's eyes. 

"Alfred," he says, as he draws the sheets around his...butler. And he packs them in tight. 

"Rest."

Alfred's limbs quiver like bowstring twanged with an arrow. 

"I will, Master Bruce."


	2. Chapter 2

Dick gets up. 

"Morning!" he bellows, because Dick is _that_ fire engine, the morning one who can't let others sleep in.

He pads down the hallway wearing Pikachu socks and a huge grin plastered on his face, because it's Sunday and he's going to work on his motorbike and teach Damian how to shoot a pool rocket. Also because it's _goddamn Sunday._

Nothing like a little break from the police scanner and police reports and police talkies to rinse your head out. And later in the day, Dick is going to check on Alfred. Rumor in the Bat-town is, Alfie's heading for a breakdown, fast. He's already sent word to Jason. Jason, who used to sit with Alfred in the dusk's early light, feet swinging off the porch, just watching the sun set across the milky pool...reciting Shakspeare and Kipling and godknowswhat...and Dick had once tried it with them, but he'd just gotten depressed after the end when the stars came out and the sun went down and he felt alone in the whole universe, for the first time...

And so Jason is hurrying back from Bulgaria, brushing cases off of him like specks of lint, all it had taken was _one word_ breathed in the general direction of _Alfred._ All it had taken was _...something's not quite right, Jay._

And here is Jason, packing up what must have been _months_ of undercover work in the East European street gangs and flesh rings. Dick feels like a shit sometimes when he thinks about how he has treated Jason, along with the rest of the family, how they've bashed and beaten and broken him, how they've tried to reach him with hurt, with fear. And the only one, the only one Jason could really _connect_ to, the only one who saw the gun-toting bloodhound and said _Master Bruce, that_ _boy is still your_ son...was going away, slowly, fading like old dust.

There is going to be shit to pay, Dick reflects, when Jason gets home.

Dick walks down from his solid attic story, hot wood underneath cool socked soles. Used to be a time he couldn't resist sliding down the bannisters. Used to be a time for lots of things. He still slides down experimentally, a little. He tries to feel the old joyous ruefullness of exploration, the one you feel when you're in a sad old house with sad old people in it, because the house is still fresh and new and exciting, and because it's about as mysterious as a shipwreck buried beneath miles of water, freshly preserved.

But the house has a way of chilling things to the bone. The boy gets off the hard railing. He pads down the rest of the way, and with a somersault lands all the way in front of Damian's bedroom, and without any ado, launches himself forward on his hand and opens the door with the full weight of his body. (Damian is known to take pains to block his door with chests, not having the luxury of door locks, wisely.) This time, however, the door flies open and Dick skids to a stop in front of a wide, uninhabited double bed, the sheets all bunched up. Because of course. How didn't he guess? 

He can hear a clanging outside, like metal teeth gnashing. A sword being sharpened against a rusty iron gate.

"Damian!"

Dick runs the rest of the house, down the stairs and across the corridor, feeling very Vee Willie Winkie in his short shorts and nightcap. He takes it off and flings it in the general direction of the laundry hamper while shooting past the kitchen. Something's wrong. He can feel it in the air.

He reaches Damian down the garden path, where Alfred's blue roses are just coming into their full blooms, and the lilac beds he'd planted last spring, down on his hands and knees, all day... Bruce had been so happy, he had something to work on, something to let him forget. Their heavy smell hangs in the air like forced jokes. Like all of Riddler's question marks, _what will become of us?_

Damian is standing in pristine navy blue trousers and a light crepe shirt, buttoned up and rolled at the sleeves. His morning jacket is hanging on a shrub. Dick feels mildly self-conscious, but he dismisses this as unworthy. He approaches Damian, who doesn't look up from methodically scraping his long, thin blade against the large cast-iron gate fence. It sends blue sparks flying in all directions.

"Good morning."

Damian doesn't answer. 

"Damian?"

Damian still doesn't answer. Dick scans the boy's face. The tight line around the eyes, the set of the jaw. And then he sees it. 

A faint, but unmistakable, sign of tear tracks. 

"What's wrong?" Dick asks. Damian's eyes are all bunched up, like he's screwing them tighter together for concentration. Or to prevent something from trickling out.

"Damian!" he shakes the boy. The sword falls, and suddenly Damian is on his knees, his hand up to his mouth, letting out a hoarse, choking sob.

"Jesus Christ. What happened?" Dick kneels down quicker than he can think, with more than brotherly affection rising in his cheeks, holding Damian to his chest instinctively. The boy does not resist, but slumps closer to his chest, which is the second sign, after the gasping sobs, that something is very, very wrong. It takes something close to the end of the world for an Wayne to behave like this.

"Pennyworth is de-ad." Damian spits out, in a hoarse whisper. 

"What." Dick's eyes come to a running full stop inside his head. His heartbeat climbs to his throat --he's instantly drawing breath, like he's been trained to when drowning. 

"Or as near as. Father doesn't think he's going to last tonight."

Dick drops Damian, and races into the house.

* * *

Timothy Jackson Drake tries to sit up, but his arms are tired, and his body trembles with unslept languidness. A giant bear is standing above him with a white rock clutched in one paw, growling. He squints closer, trying to decipher why the bear is so angry with him. Could he be, possibly, sleeping in its cave? It's possible.

Tim can't bring himself to care.

"Get the _fuck_ up, Replacement," snarls the bear, putting down the rock--it might be a coffee mug--onto Tim's bedside table with a thud. Some of the coffee sloshes over the sides and onto the carved lamp. 

Tim springs straight up into a ninety degree angle. He stares.

"Jeeezus. _Jason?!"_

Jason it is. A very peculiar looking Jason at that. His chin and cheeks are covered by a kind of offhand-groomed fuzz of black hair, and his eyes are dark, hollow pits. His cheeks are sunken in, and look as hollow as his eyes. He seems to have lost about thirty pounds, his red tshirt hanging onto his frame with a loose elegance, his shoulders slightly bent forward like his chest is caving in. 

Tim stares some more, and then blinks. Where is Jason's all too familiar bulk of musculature, the finely cultivated curve and ripple of triceps? Where is the hurried, hysterical mania of the eyes, the radiating sense of loneliness, the air of snapping at his surroundings constantly? The boy he sees in front of him seems to have grown into the Earth, grown roots of steel maybe, because all his growth is downward, and instead of the bombastic blade of malice, now he looks like a pure stick of resilience.

"Hey," says Tim, trying to smile obviously an obviously fake one through his teeth. He doesn't want Jason to think he's _truly_ happy to see him. Although he may be.

"Skip the preliminaries, Timmy. I want you to find Bruce and tell him his least favorite ward is here to see his butler. And tell him," here Jason pulls out the familiar Beretta. "Tell him," he cocks it, "that I won't take up long, but should be try to stop me, so help me God, I'm gonna put this between his teeth, and live out every one of my fantasies for the past five years. Got that, hon?"

Tim knows the drill, of course. Everyone does. Red Hood threatens to kill Batman, Red Hood gets the chance, Red Hood comes up with shitty excuse to differ killing Batman, Red Hood spits in Batman's face and threatens to kill him, _next time,_ for _sure._

But this time, it's not Red Hood making the talk. It's Jason.

And something tells Tim it's more than bluster.

He picks up the mug and sips hurriedly. Hot daggers drain down his throat. Then he gets up. 

"Just give me a minute, _hon."_

"Fine," Jason scowls, leaning back and crossing his arms. "You got five."

"Jeez, thanks."

Tim slips into the bathroom, closing the merciful door behind him. He sinks down onto the cold marble floor, resting his head in his hands. A cold tear falls out, and plops onto the floor. 


	3. Chapter 3

Alfred lays on the thick bed, the sheets spread under his carefully sprawled limbs in useless submission. Bruce sits under him, kneeling, his two hands enclosing Alfred's sinewy veined hand, thin like vinegar. The two bodies have not moved since sunrise. Dick, Damian and Tim stand in the doorway, looking on at them with the air of listless mourners at a funeral, waiting for the hearse to be lowered into the ground. Only Jason stands, his hands outspread, his feet digging in like for a long fight, right in the centre of the room. Bruce does not look up, does not smile, does not frown, his eyes like fishhooks which have dug into Alfred's soul, and cannot pull themselves away without ripping out flesh and bone.

Alfred Pennyworth dreams of sunrise and sunset, dusk and dawn. Strange shapes flit over his face, like the green shadows on the surface of a pond of sedge...His eyes close, open, close like a catfish's mouth. He wonders for the longest time if men are dreams, dreams submerged in lakes of prism and sunlight, foreshadowing all doubts and hopelessness. He knows, for the first time, that his son was wrong in turning back on the light, in choosing darkness as his cover. For Alfred Pennyworth was an actor, and he knew what happened to people who wear one role for too long, how the mask sticks to the face like grease and skin.

He'd know, because he is one of them.

* * *

Dick and Damian and Tim stand around the casket. A simple pine lid, with the Wayne escutcheon on the side, right above the heart. 

"He was the bravest one of us." Dick says, eyes carried away into the wind.

It would have been so easy. So simple. For Alfred to drift away, like a plank out to sea. _Bruce_ had. He'd left, with no warning. He'd stayed away for years. Japan. Tibet. Brazil. He'd come back, and found a home.

He had looked in Alfred's eyes, and seen only a warning.

"The next time you leave me, Master Bruce, without so much as goodbye..."

He hadn't had to say more. Bruce threw his hands around Alfred's chest, and they stood together like that, two men locked together against the drift of time. Bruce had sworn, then. On the graves of his parents.

"Never again, Alfred."

And he held on to that promise. Because he had been too much of a coward, was what he was. Too much of a coward. To look Alfred in the eye and push away all the dreams and memories he would see reflected in his eyes. 

And yet Alfred had stayed. 

"Alfred. Stay." Bruce whispers, his knee to the dust. 

It's too late. 

"He looked like he wanted to say something," says Tim.

Jason had taken off. His face was shuttered. He'd put on his mask before getting on the bike. Dick could see droplets falling onto his pale neck.

"What did he want to say?!" Tim is nearly shrieking.

Damian puts his arm around Tim's shoulder. The solid and the supple. Light olive hand against pale lemon shirt.

Tim leans into his touch slightly without realizing it. He looks bewildered.

Alfred had decided against leaving a letter. He couldn't move his fingers enough to write, and what he wanted to say couldn't be put in words anyway. 

He wanted to say something like "find happiness, Master Bruce" but he knew his saying it wouldn't make it happen. 

He wanted to say "make up with Jason, Master Bruce, he's your son" but he knew that when the time was right, it would happen, and not a moment sooner.

He wanted to say "I wouldn't have had it any other way, not any of it" but he didn't, because it would be a lie--he _would_ have had it ten thousand other ways, if he could. 

He wanted to say "it was a pleasure, Master Bruce, to serve beside you". And that much was true. It was a pleasure, all of it, because when a man is on his deathbed he can't remember the pain. He can't remember the shouts, the heart-wrench of a man who has to watch his son being pulled apart, and has to put him back together, one sinew at a time. He remembers the good times. And only that.

He wanted to say "don't you go down the well a second time, Master Bruce. Don't you _dare_ mourn me, you hear me boy?". But that would have been the silliest thing of all to say, because who _was_ Bruce if he didn't mourn? How could he do that, say that, to his own son? How could he deprive him of it? 

So finally he settled for a smile. 

Bruce smiled back. And somehow, in all those wrinkles of time and care, Alfred knew Bruce could read all these things, and more.

"Sleep, old friend." Bruce murmured. "The fight is over."


End file.
